جهان پشت سر 3

THREE

Lyrisa

I’ve slept in better places, but I’ve also slept in worse.

The meager cushion of the keel bench has become my kingdom, the only domain that is mine. It’s more than I could say before, in my uncle’s household, where everything was given with the threat of being taken away.

A few hours into the night, I wish I hadn’t tossed away the guard’s coat, and instead had washed it or bleached it or taken scraps from it or something. The air cools over the river, and I’m left to shiver myself to sleep. True, a man died in that coat. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t still have a use.

Maybe some Red will find it and fix it up.

Or maybe Orrian will. And he’ll know where to follow.

The thought chills me more than the night air.

No, I tell myself. Orrian thinks you are dead a hundred miles away. With the rest of his guards, with sweet Magida, another corpse charred in a pit. Killed by an ambush, Scarlet Guard or Montfort or both. Silvers slaughtered, more casualties of however many wars we’re fighting now. He’ll never find you if you keep running. You’re safe on this river.

I almost believe it.

When I wake up before dawn, there’s a blanket tucked around my shoulders and feet, cocooning me in unfamiliar warmth. I can almost pretend I’m home, truly home, before Father died and we left the Tidewater for good. But that was six years ago, a far-gone memory, an impossibility.

I blink and I remember.

I’m on a Red Riverman’s keelboat, outnumbered and hated by everyone around me, with nowhere to go but forward. A dead girl on the run.

Though I feel it in every breath, fear will not serve me here. And these Reds must not know I’m terrified of what lies behind, of what might still be coming.

So I sit up, raising my chin, pretending to sneer at the threadbare, soft blanket drawn over my lap. As if it is the most offensive thing in the world, and not a kindness I do not deserve.

Before surveying the deck, I look behind us, at the stretching ribbon of the Ohius. It looks much the same as it did yesterday. Muddy water, green banks, the Lakelands stretching to the north, the Disputed Lands to the south. Both are empty, without a person or town in sight. Neither side of the river likes to be this close together, and they keep their distance beyond the few dock points along the miles.

“Looking for something?”

That self-important captain leans against the rail two yards away, arms crossed and legs angled, his entire body facing toward me. The gun at his hip is visible, even in the dim light before dawn. He has the audacity to grin, his idiotic gold tooth winking like a taunting star.

“Just trying to assess how far we’ve gone,” I reply swiftly, my voice cold. “Your boat is slow.” He doesn’t flinch. Yesterday his hair shone almost dark red in the sun. Now in the early morning light it is black, pulled into a neat tail. I take in the rest of him, brown skin freckled and darkened from years on the water. Scarred hands, rope welts. I bet his fingers are rough.

“My boat does the job fine,” he says. “Between the poles and the motor, we make the time we need to make.” The dwindling coins in my purse weigh heavy on my mind. I could’ve paid him far less than I offered. Stupid. Idiot. “I’m paying you to make better.” “And why is that?” He tips his head, pushing off the rail in a fluid motion. The man has a prowl to him. A predator, though he is little more than prey. “What’s a Silver like you doing on my rivers?” My jaw locks and I raise my chin. I settle into the imperious mask I’ve relied upon in many a Silver court, in front of my uncle, my mother, and any other noble Silver who might try my patience. It doesn’t work on the captain.

He stands before me, his stance broad. He’s taller than most, and muscular from work. Behind him, the rest of the meager crew have begun to busy themselves at their posts. It makes me wonder if the captain does anything of use at all. Indeed, I haven’t seen him pick up a pole or touch the boat’s wheel since we boarded. All he seems to do is keep too close an eye on his passengers and his cargo.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You’re not paying me to ask questions.” I’m seized by the urge to snap this annoyance in half. “No, I am not.” He knows I’m Silver. Knows I’m his best-paying passenger. Knows I’m a threat in more ways than one. And he still takes another step, looming over me, his form blocking out the rest of the boat.

“If you’re putting this keel and this crew in danger, I need to know about it.” I regard him coolly. The man doesn’t move back, but his eyes falter, just a little, as his mind catches up with his mouth. He doesn’t know my ability. Doesn’t know what I’m capable of. Doesn’t know how I could kill him, or his passengers, or his crew.

I shove the blanket into his arms. “The only thing in danger here is you.” He turns without a second thought, bundling the blanket under one arm. As he passes his pet bear, he jabs a thumb at me. “Ean, feed her last.” The hulking monster of a Red man does as ordered. When food is passed out to the crew, he comes to me last, presenting me with the same thing we ate for dinner, accompanied by a mug of steaming black coffee. At least it smells good, and I take my time savoring the aroma. It makes me shudder, down to my toes.

Halfway through my meal, I notice the little Red girl watching me closely, peering around her waking mothers. Her brother, older by a year or so, still sleeps beneath their bench, curled up in blankets. I meet the girl’s eye and she quickly turns away, terrified by my attention.

Good. At least someone is.

As the sun rises, I pace the boat slowly.

Yesterday, I woke up in the woods long before dawn, making my way down to the ramshackle docks to plead for passage with so many others. I was scared; I was hungry. I didn’t know if I’d find a boat or be turned away. I should feel relief. The river moving steadily beneath us should bring me some peace.

It does not.

I try to shake the unease as I move, working my way up and down the empty walks of the keel to get my bearings. I didn’t leave the bench yesterday, and my legs need stretching. Not that there’s much room for it on a keelboat. The craft is long but thin, perhaps twenty feet across at its widest point, and less than a hundred long from end to end. The cargo hold takes up everything below deck, along with the captain’s quarters. Even though he doesn’t seem to do anything else, I’ve seen Ashe dart in there from time to time, then emerge with charts or the like. The river must always be changing, wearing new paths through the waterbed. Downed logs, new outposts, Silver checkpoints. Ashe and the crew know them all, and keep watch.

But they aren’t looking behind. Only I know to do that.

My clothes aren’t my own, and they fit poorly on my frame. Chest tight, sleeves short. I’m taller than the Lakelander guard I took them from, but she was the closest to my size. Every time I move, I’m afraid I might split a seam. Once I was vain about the curves of my body. Not anymore. I have more important things to think about. I make a note to try and buy something better suited when we dock next, wherever that may be.

I know the geography of the river well enough. The Disputed Lands are on our maps, albeit in far less detail than my own kingdom. I know the cities Memphia and Mizostium, both farther downriver. I admit, I’m eager to see them, if only from the river. I’ve known cities built by Silver crowns, beautiful but walled, ruled by one kind of blood. Of course I’ve seen Red slums, certainly, though not by choice. I wonder which the Disputed cities will be more like.

I wish I could see them under better circumstances. Without this horrible choice I’ve already made hanging over my head. Without running.

No, I’m not running. Cowards run, and I’m not a coward. A coward would have stayed behind. A coward would have waited for Orrian, accepted him and the fate already chosen.

A cool breeze plays off the water, balancing out the heat of the sun approaching high noon. It runs over me, light as a kiss, and I let my eyes flutter shut.

Then the deck creaks as someone stops beside me, and I grit my teeth, preparing myself for more of the needling captain.

Instead it’s one of the Red servants. I think her name is Jem. Her son stands at her side, less fearful of me than his sister. He stares at me brazenly, eyes black and round. I stare back.

“Hello,” I mutter after a moment, puzzled as to what else to do.

He nods curtly. Strange for a child.

Next to him, his mother looks on, warmly regarding her son. She ruffles his hair, golden as his sister’s. True to her training as a palace servant, she doesn’t speak to me and won’t unless I speak first.

“We’re in the Disputed Lands now,” I tell her. “You don’t have to stand on ceremony. You can talk if you want to talk.” She rests her hand on her son’s shoulder and looks out at the river, regarding the far bank, where the Lakelands begin. “Who says I want to talk to you, Silver?” I almost laugh. “Fair enough.”

It must be strange to see someone like me and someone like her standing side by side. A Silver princess and a Red servant, her child between us. Both of us fleeing. Both of us at the mercy of this river and this crew. The same, in most ways.

Strange, how this world is shifting. The wars in the east may not be over, won or lost, but they’ve certainly brought change already.

I have no taste for war. I want no part of the world behind me. Impossible lightning girls, murdered kings. Reds in rebellion, Silvers in exile. And I have no idea what kind of place that chaos will become.

But I don’t have the time to wonder about the future. I have to look back. I have to keep watch.

I leave the Red servant where she stands and spend the next few hours at the back of the boat, feet planted firmly, my eyes on the river as the bends turn and twist. The keel is quiet, mostly. The Red captain speaks softly to his crew, directing them once or twice an hour. The crew, a scarred woman and a reedy man with poles, do their job well. The breathing mountain puffs in and out of the cargo hold, doing who knows what below. The Nortan servants speak together at the far end of the keel, mostly focused on keeping their daughter in hand. The son is far more manageable. He stands at the front of the boat as I stand at the back, his eyes forward. He never speaks at all.

He also doesn’t make a sound when the river, elegant and lethal, reaches up over the rail and pulls him under.

Daria turns in time to see his legs go over the side, little feet flailing. She screams but I don’t hear it, already moving, already knowing what took the boy.

It wasn’t a wave. Rivers don’t have them.

It wasn’t some twist of the current or bad rapid.

This was designed, driven, made.

This was Orrian.

This was me.

A hand grips my arm, trying to stop me as I move down the keel, but I break the hold without thought. Out of the corner of my eye I see the captain blanch, his face nearly a blur. Ahead, the polers are working double time, turning the boat, slowing our course. I want to yell at them not to stop. To speed up. To do anything but slow down.

But then the boy will drown.

I have enough dead bodies on my conscience, Red and Silver.

The big oaf jumps into the water first, or certainly tries to. The river simply tosses him, sputtering and spitting, back onto the deck. His crew looks on in horror, the blood draining from their faces. They know what I know.

“Lyrisa, don’t—” the captain’s voice says somewhere as I plunge over the side.

The river doesn’t toss me back. I’m doing what it wants.

We’re in shallower water than I anticipated, and the current laps around my shoulders. It surges against me, trying to push me deeper, into the faster water and stronger course. I lock my muscles, letting my ability surge. Nothing can make me move if I don’t want to, and the river breaks on me like stone.

Shouting echoes back on the keel. I don’t hear a word.

The boy is a few yards off, visible beneath the surface, his eyes open, bubbles streaming from his mouth. Still alive, still fighting. I force my way to him, hands reaching for thin arms and legs. He’s bait. I know that.

Orrian is sick in the head, a twisted sort. I’d rip him in two if I could.

My hands close around the boy’s shoulders, and I can already feel the unnatural pressure of the water holding him down. I try to calculate in my mind, remembering my training with my father and his family. If I pull too hard, I’ll break the boy. Crush him between my hands. Not enough pull, though, and the water will keep him.

There simply isn’t time.

Another pair of hands joins mine, making me jump.

The captain stands over us, face flushed, the water rushing all around him. The river doesn’t throw him back into the boat, and he stands firm, tugging on the boy. Still, the boy doesn’t budge.

The captain curses like only a Riverman can.

I grit my teeth and pull.

The boy breaks the surface with a sick pop, spewing river water as he coughs and sputters. He clings to me, little arms surprisingly strong. And the water crashes over us, intending to catch us off guard. With one hand I reach out, grabbing onto the captain’s shoulder. He falters beneath my grip, nearly losing his balance to the raging current. But I keep him steady.

Then gunfire echoes from the keel, cracking with precision into the Lakelander banks.

The river relaxes around us, releasing its hold.

“Move,” I snarl, shoving the captain toward his boat.

I waste no time, the boy still cradled in one arm. He’s featherlight. I barely notice his weight. I’m a strongarm, after all. Carrying around an underfed ten-year-old is nothing.

The captain pushes me ahead of him, toward the boat rail, as if I’m useless. I scoff at him, seize him by the collar, and toss him bodily over the side.

I go next, one hand more than enough to lift both me and the boy back up and into the keel.

The boy sputters still, spitting water as his mothers descend, wrapping him in dry blankets.

At the rail, the keel crew keeps up the volley of gunfire, and the captain sprints to the helm behind the cargo hold. He spins the wheel of the boat and guns the motor, letting it roar beneath us. We pick up speed, but not much.

Without a word, one of the polers hands a rifle to me.

I’m no grand shot, but I know how to lay down cover, and that’s exactly what I do.

Orrian’s hunters must be clustered in the single growth of trees and rushes on the bank, hidden from sight. They were waiting. I keep up my fire, round after round, in rhythm with the keel crew. When someone reloads, another takes over for them, giving the keel enough time to maneuver around the next bend.

The Lakelanders are not without guns of their own, but we have better cover, using the thick plank rails as shielding. I expect a swift to dart across the river and drag me screaming back into the Lakelands. Or perhaps a magnetron to shred the motor of the keel. A greenwarden to turn the riverbank plants against us. But so far, it seems, only a nymph lies in wait. Has Orrian come to retrieve me alone? Is he only traveling with Red guards to aid him, because he knows he needs little more than that to bring me back? Or are he and his Silver friends taking sport in this, hunting me slowly?

My teeth rattle with every round, the rifle pressed tightly in the crook of my shoulder.

At first I think the silhouette is a trick of the light. The sun on the rushes and the leaves, casting an odd shadow. But then it’s unmistakable. Orrian parts the plants with a hand, his wicked smile visible even fifty yards away. I take aim and miss, the bullet plunking into the water. His grin only deepens. He doesn’t need words to threaten me. The smile is enough.

When the keel rounds the bend, the captain shouts something I can’t hear, but I feel relief all the same. His friend, the other keelboat captain, has stopped his craft in the middle of the river, waiting for us.

And standing on the cargo bed, loaded and waiting, is a fixed and ready heavy machine gun, perched like a black iron spider. The ammunition coils next to it, a snake of bullets.

With the grove of trees out of our sight, now hidden behind the river bend, everything falls quiet. No gunfire, just my thundering heartbeat and the gasping breaths of every person aboard the keel.

I keep my eyes behind, waiting for another strike, as the captain maneuvers the keel up to his friend’s boat. Both crews are quick to lash the crafts together, working as diligently as ants in a colony.

Softly, Melly starts to cry.

My focus is still on the river, on the stand of trees just out of view, when the planks of the deck shudder beneath heavy footsteps. The captain’s voice growls in my ear, his breath hot against me.

“You lied, strongarm.”